


A Better Life

by StarsandJellyfish



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel Bonds (Supernatural), Angry Gabriel (Supernatural), Gabriel (Supernatural) is Loki, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, POV Outsider, Sam Winchester is So Done with Gabriel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:54:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24345319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarsandJellyfish/pseuds/StarsandJellyfish
Summary: Jordan's family has fallen into infamy and poverty. His mother is a worshipper of Loki. She knows how to fix things, bring their family back into good fortune again. They have an offering for Loki. But will Loki like their offering? Or will he be furious about it?
Relationships: Gabriel/Sam Winchester
Comments: 4
Kudos: 112





	A Better Life

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this self-indulgent piece that formed from an image that wouldn't leave me alone. It morphed into this Outsider POV fic (which I've always loved, especially in the Supernatural universe. What's not to love about seeing crazily powerful creatures or scary men like the Winchesters from a normal person's perspective?).  
> In this fic, I've ignored the fact that Gabriel took Loki's place. Instead, he just became Loki when he ran away. So, once he's back after the whole Metatron thing, he holds court sometimes. It's not canon-compliant, but what can you do?  
> Anyway, like I said, I hope you enjoy this fic, and thank you for reading! :)

A Better Life

Jordan Parker knelt at the edge of a summoning circle, stark white lines bisecting the grass. Bottles of leaky spray paint lay half empty and still dripping a short distance away, the chemical scent of them carrying on the breeze to his nostrils. Closing his eyes, Jordan breathed the smell in deeply, reminding himself of why he was doing this.

At his right shoulder stood his mother, Bella Parker, her poison red nails digging painfully into his skin. They didn’t break through, prevented by the smart white shirt Jordan was wearing, but they certainly pinched. He resisted the urge to wriggle out of her grip.

On his left stood Benjamin Parker, his father. His hand rested much more gently on Jordan’s shoulder, grip just tight enough that it gave support and encouragement. Jordan certainly needed it for what they were about to do. It was scary, thinking about the way his life was going to change, but it would be worth it. It would _all_ be worth it.

Across from him, on the other side of the circle, his little sister Emma opened a leather-bound book and flipped carefully through the pages, fingers barely brushing each yellowed and curling page so as not to damage them. The book was ancient, had been passed down through the generations on his mother’s side. Now, it would finally be put to good use. Jordan felt a rush of gratitude and adoration for his sister rush through him. She was a good girl, doing as much as she could for their family, just as he was in these difficult times.

Their family had fallen into poverty and despair. Their ancestors must have been looking down from lofty heights with disdain at the depths to which the Parkers had fallen. But everything was about to change.

What Jordan was doing here today, what their family was doing here today, would fix things. It would bring them back out of poverty, would shine good luck and fortunes down upon them again. Jordan dug his fingers in his thighs, hands splayed wide across the finest black pants he could afford. The pain of his dug-deep fingers helped control his shaking, helped him get his breathing back under control.

On the other side of the circle, Emma was drawing to a close, her voice raising into a yell. Jordan held back a wince. What would the neighbours think?

He shook it off. Soon, it wouldn’t matter anymore. Their family would be blessed again, and he would be the favoured consort of a _god_. Their circumstances were about to change for the better, and if Jordan had had any doubts about the role he had to play, he’d shaken them off long ago. His family needed him to play his part, so he would.

As Emma’s voice fell quiet, the air ringing with sharp silence after her last exultant word, Jordan felt the power rising. It drew around him and his parents, pressing tightly against them. His skin tingled with sparks, his hair whipping around him and stinging his cheeks with the force of it. Hissing at the pressure, at the tightening of the grip of both his parents, Jordan closed his eyes. Brightness had been rising up, the lids of his eyes burning red when they fell closed. It felt like he was being boiled alive, buffeted by the currents of power moving around them.

The ground dropped out from under them all, his mother giving a faint cry and his father a nervous laugh as they floated through air, suspended by nothing but the wind-water-heat magic. It swept them up, tumbled them into a ball, stole their air and scorched their skin. It rushed through them, into them, picking them up and hurling them across the air, the world, until it dropped them again just as hurriedly.

Stone crashed into Jordan’s knees as he touched down, the skin splitting painfully as he landed. Holding back his cry, he winced and shifted. Already dampened cloth pulled against the skin, and Jordan thanked the gods that his trousers were black and the stains wouldn’t be seen. He needed to make a good impression on this god, _had_ to be chosen as his favoured consort, given willingly as a sacrifice by his family, so he could bring them blessings beyond measure.

Steeling himself, Jordan opened his eyes. He blinked. The room was dark, the floors, ceiling and walls all made of grey stone. Dampness shone orange in the fire-light, the walls dotted with torches in a regular pattern. Tapestries lined the hall, different greens fighting for dominance in a Celtic design, swirling and twisting and vine-like. In the shadows, figures shifted. They whispered amongst themselves, creating a susurration in the room, like snakes hissing in a pit. No faces were visible, no forms recognisable. Jordan turned his gaze away, focusing ahead instead.

Before him rose a dais, also carved from stone. The steps were carved in the same Celtic patterns that lined the walls, though these didn’t glisten. Only the dais was dry, the stone a few shades paler. No figures remained here, either. All there was on the platform was a single throne, smaller than Jordan would have expected from a god. It was wooden, carved with a skilled hand and sized so that a regular human could sit on it, if he dared. Every design was intricate, though not all of it fit with the vine motif of the rest of the room. Instead, the seat was carved with flames and runes, the meanings of which tickled at the edges of Jordan’s mind. It was almost as if he could read them, if he could only remember how.

The throne itself was empty.

Jordan and his parents waited solemnly. This was a display of power, a move made to remind them that they didn’t command this room. _He_ did. All they had to do was wait for him, and wait patiently. Jordan resisted the urge to sigh. Shifting his burning knees on the floor, doing his best to ignore the way his blood was clotting, sticking his pants to his skin, Jordan settled in to wait.

An hour passed.

Another hour.

One more hour.

Just as they were reaching the end of the fourth hour, something happened. The air was stirring on the dais, shimmering like a heat-haze. A breeze whipped up, fluttering the tapestries against the walls and blocking out the hissing sounds of the court. Blond hair stung Jordan’s eyes as it whipped into them, causing him to blink and wince as a figure shimmied into view above them.

Through a sheen of stinging tears, Jordan watched as a man stepped out of the haze, solidifying before them. He blinked harshly, hoping the tears wouldn’t fall down his cheeks as he knelt there. Behind him, his parents shifted from foot to foot, the hushed sound their feet made against the stone making Jordan tense. This wasn’t what he had been expecting, though what he had been expecting he didn’t know.

The man who had appeared before them had sat in his chair, watching them with a cat-like expression, as if they were a mouse he was going to play with before he ate. His eyes were dark amber, sparkling with a dark sort of glee. Golden curls framed his face, wild and free. In the flickering torch-light, his hair seemed to almost writhe on its own. A green tunic covered the man, embroidered carefully with more of the flames his throne carried. Around his calves golden sandals curled, criss-crossing over his legs like barbed brambles. The strange mix of ordinary and dangerous made Jordan shift, goose-bumps prickling at his skin.

In the damp coolness of the room, Jordan waited for the man to speak, nervous sweat tickling at his temple. Upon his throne, the god studied them intently but expectantly, as if he already knew what they were there for.

“Well?” he asked eventually, leaning to rest on one elbow. His other hand came up casually, nails held for inspecting. The soft scratching of his thumb nail against his index fingernail made Jordan grit his teeth, withholding the huff he wanted to send this god’s way. They were giving him an offering; the least he could do was act _interested_. “You came before me and my court. What do you want?”

“Oh, great Lord,” his mother’s voice was hushed, honoured. She dropped into a bow, her auburn hair brushing the back of Jordan’s neck. He wanted to shift away from the tickle, but her fingers clamped down on his shoulder, fixing him in place. “We have come with a humble offering.”

“We beseech you, take this gift,” his father used his free hand to gesture to Jordan. He held himself higher, ignoring the way his slit knees were grinding into the floor. “In exchange for good fortune upon our family.”

An amused eyebrow rose. The god’s hand dropped, fingers curling idly around the arm of the chair.

“What makes you think I want this gift?” he asked, nodding towards Jordan. There was something on the god’s face, something that made Jordan bristle. It was almost as if the man was implying he wasn’t good enough. Bella had made sure to pick a fine man, a man who would give her a handsome and intelligent son: him. The only thing Jordan didn’t have going for him was wealth and fame, and they were here to win that back today.

“My Lord,” his mother’s voice was the same one she had once used when selling things. She’d been good at that, before her brother had been arrested. She’d only barely escaped being arrested herself, and when her brother had gone, he’d taken all the family’s luck with him, leaving them destitute and infamous. Her hand shifted from his shoulder, giving the abused skin some blessed relief. She slithered her hand into his hair, fingers coiling into his curly strands. “My son is intelligent, handsome and willing. He will be your consort,” she paused deliberately, making what she said a command. Tacked onto the end, almost as an afterthought, was, “If you’ll have him.”

“I see you’re very sure,” the god stayed leaning casually to the side, his face still amused. The way he was acting made Jordan want to punch him. Hard. Amber eyes darted his way, as if the god could read his mind. Jordan hoped he couldn’t: it would make things awkward, for certain. “The question is: why?”

“Oh, Great One,” his father’s voice was more worshipful than his mother’s, but then his father hadn’t _truly_ believed in the gods until the spell had worked. A fleeting thought occurred to Jordan, that he would have preferred his sister there with him, but he dismissed it. It wouldn’t do to dwell on wishes right then. “You bless those who sacrifice willingly to you. Jordan is a willing sacrifice. He will serve you well.”

“Is that right, Jordan?” Jordan cursed his father silently. Everyone knew names held power, and now the god had power over him. Jordan wasn’t stupid enough to believe that he would never have to give his name out, but he had hoped to do it under his own terms. Again, Jordan found himself wishing for Emma instead of his father. “Are you a willing sacrifice?”

“Completely, _Loki_ ,” Jordan grit out, lifting his eyes to meet sparkling whisky-dark ones. His teeth were gritted, his voice angry. Hoping that his display of anger wouldn’t be picked up in the echoing chamber, Jordan bowed a little. He didn’t drop the god’s gaze, but he did dip his head. “I am here to serve.”

“Hmm,” Loki tapped against the darkened wood of his chair, the slow taps loud in the chamber. He cocked his head at Jordan, pinning him in his bow with ease. “You don’t _sound_ very willing.” He rubbed at his chin thoughtfully, eyes flickering around the shadowy figures drawing closer from out of the dark. Fingers gripped stone columns, the first display of corporealness Jordan had seen from them. “I refuse.”

“What?!” his mother’s outraged cry flew out of her before she could stop it. Her fingers tightened in Jordan’s hair, yanking his head up painfully. Clenching his teeth, Jordan kept himself like that. It would be best not to draw Loki’s attention when he was angered, and from the look on his face, he _was_ angered. “Sorry. What I meant to say was: excuse me, my Lord?”

“You heard me,” Loki’s voice was flat, his weight still held to the side, though his muscles were tense now. The lines of his body were sharper, enough to be noticeable in the dim glow of the fires. “I refuse.”

“You can’t do that, Lord,” Bella’s voice was almost pleading, a desperate edge to it that she couldn’t stop from bleeding through. Jordan’s neck and back muscles were beginning to ache; she hadn’t relaxed her clutch on his hair. “He is a willing offering.”

“You said,” Loki’s gaze moved away from them again, eyes tracing the grooves on the walls. Jordan followed his gaze, watching as the carvings on the walls seemed to twist and writhe, the shadows deepening the lines of the work into great valleys in the stone. “But I do not accept. You may go.”

“My Lord?” his father tried to interject. A furious hiss arose from the room. Loki sat upright sharply, both hands clenched around the arms of his chair. “Please—”

“I have no need for a consort,” Loki’s voice was hard, eyes piercing. They met each person’s in turn, lingering on Jordan’s. There was something flickering at the back of his eyes, something almost like pity, that boiled Jordan’s blood, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. With his head pulled backwards the way it was, it was all he could do to hold Loki’s eyes defiantly. “I have a husband. He is enough for me.”

“A husband?” Jordan could almost picture the way his mother’s sharp brow was arching, the flat disbelief on her face pushing her lips into a tight purse. Her voice was mocking when she said, “And no king has ever had a consort when they have taken a spouse?”

The flames in the room seemed to flare higher, as if reacting to Loki’s rage. There was a blaze igniting in his eyes, one of pure rage. Jordan gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he did so.

“You would disrespect my honour in such a way?” the god’s voice was hissing, spitting venom with every word. “You would disrespect _my husband_ in such a way?”

“My Lord, I’m sure she didn’t mean—” his father began, hands held up placatingly.

“Silence!” Loki roared, the flames definitely flaring this time. They fell back far further after the initial flare, cloaking the room in darkness. Only Loki’s eyes were still easily visible in the dim, flashing fire bright and furious. When he spoke again, his voice was low, dangerous. “I am no king, I am a _god_. I will not have your—” he looked Jordan up and down, lips curled in disgust. “Offering. You will leave my presence.”

“My Lord,” his mother finally let go of his hair, her fingers curling around his father’s still-raised wrists. As he moved his head forward, tucking his chin down a little, Jordan massaged his aching muscles. The shadows were louder now, the hush of their whispers like the sound of a distant waterfall. “I beg you to reconsider—”

“I shan’t,” Loki declared, voice holding no room for argument. “But perhaps if you will not hear it from my mouth, you will hear it from his.”

Loki raised his hand, the gesture making Jordan gulp. A snap sounded throughout the room.

The air began wavering, then shimmering. A figure was forming, much taller than Loki’s original form had been. Breathing through his mouth to block out the smell of molten stone and salty water, the smell that arose every time Loki’s powers were used, Jordan watched as the shimmering tapered off into waving, and then stillness. As the breeze in the room died down, the tapestries no longer patting the walls, a man blinked into the darkness.

The man was very tall, far taller than Jordan was. His dark hair was long like Jordan’s, though far less curly, but the man was _old_. Not old-old, but at least in his mid-thirties. Stubble dusted his cheeks and frown-lines creased his brow. Mosaic eyes shifted around in confusion, darting down to himself and then sideways towards Loki. Once they fixed there, the man pressed his lips tightly together, a heavy sigh audible in the now-silent room.

“Really?” he asked, confusing Jordan. This man was going to speak to Loki like that? Didn’t he know his husband was a _god_? He must have been incredibly sure of his place next to Loki, had to have something significant hanging over the god’s head, or he would have been subservient as Jordan’s father was being, as Jordan’s mother was _trying_ to be. “I thought we agreed that we wouldn’t introduce me to the court yet.”

“Things change,” Loki shrugged, snapping his fingers once again. Jordan flinched back, his shoulder sliding over the silk of his mother’s bright pink dress. With careful eyes, Jordan noticed that this newcomer didn’t flinch. He was definitely too self-assured. Loki’s chair shifted sideways just a little, enough to accommodate a second throne on the dais. “I thought it was time.”

With a practised eye, the man studied Loki, then gave a sharp nod. Smoothing his white tunic out, he sat himself down on the second throne, his body tense as if he weren’t used to such situations. His sandal-clad feet shifted a little on the stone. He stayed rigid in his chair, fingers clutching the arms tight enough that they turned white, bloodless. Watching as the man turned his feet inwards slightly, Jordan noticed the way he was trying to hide his body as much as he could. It occurred to Jordan that the man probably wasn’t used to dressing in tunics, not if he was human.

“This,” Loki spoke steadily, proudly. His voice was raised, bouncing off the shining walls and echoing around the room. This wasn’t just aimed at Jordan and his parents, but the whole court. “Is my husband, Samuel Winchester.” He held a hand up as the hissing started up once again, sounding almost furious to Jordan’s unknowledgeable ears. “We are bonded. What is done cannot be undone.”

Turning to Samuel, Loki waited until his husband’s eyes met his own. Jordan almost gasped at the look they shared. It was a look deeper than any he’d ever shared with anyone before, a look that spoke of true devotion and even greater love.

“I would not have it any other way,” Loki said intimately, quietly enough that Jordan had to lean forward to hear it. His knees screamed at him as he did so, but Jordan had to know if there was any weaknesses between them, anything they could play on at all. They _had_ to get their family back into good graces, they just _had_ to.

“Me, neither,” Samuel reassured, his hand moving from the arm of his own vine-carved throne to rest over Loki’s hand. The brunet’s hand was huge over the god’s, engulfing the smaller hand in golden-tanned skin.

“My Lord,” his father spoke up again, and Jordan barely resisted the urge to groan. Sinking backwards so his weight was shifted away from his knees, Jordan closed his eyes and shook his head. “We are not asking for Jordan to be your husband, simply your consort.”

Narrowed dark eyes snapped to the foot of the dais, confusion engraved deeply onto the stubble-shadowed face.

“What?” Samuel asked, looking between Jordan’s father and Loki. “Gabe, what?”

Briefly, Jordan wondered who ‘Gabe’ was, but decided that it didn’t matter. There was something about this man that suggested he might be just as dangerous as Loki, if not more so. Jordan didn’t have time to wonder who ‘Gabe’ was, not when he was starting to wonder if they would ever get out of the throne room alive. All he could do now was hope that their sales-pitch worked, hope that his mother took over from his father, because if it didn’t, if _she_ didn’t, they were all doomed.

“They want me to take a consort,” Loki explained, disgust thickening his voice. Jordan watched with worried eyes as Samuel turned to watch Loki. “They want me to take him…” Loki pointed his finger at Jordan. Jordan barely held himself in place, wanting nothing more than to wrap himself in the shadows behind him and pretend he wasn’t there. “In particular.”

“Him?” Samuel’s seemed surprised. Through Jordan’s fear flickered another emotion, a familiar one. He was a _good catch_ , would make a great consort. Why couldn’t they see it? “He’s so young.”

“I know,” Loki agreed, regret softening his voice just a little. “And if you could hear his thoughts, Sam…” Jordan recoiled at that, trying desperately to think of something else, anything else. He let his thoughts wander back to Emma, before shaking that off, as well. Was there anything safe from this god? Desperately, he focused back on how much better he could be than Samuel – Sam? – if Loki only gave him the chance. Maybe if he kept thinking it, Loki might come to believe it, too. “Let’s just say, it’s a bad idea.”

Jordan didn’t know who that last line was aimed at.

“But that’s exactly it!” Jordan’s mother broke in again. Jordan felt a brief flare of relief through his constant stream of ‘I’m younger, I’m healthier, I’m intelligent, you want me’. Bella was a saleswoman. She would know what to do. “Jordan is much younger than Samuel. We are not suggesting dishonouring your husband, but surely he could understand your need to have a much younger, attractive man around? Surely he would want one too, if he were offered one?” She paused here, considering, then turned to Samuel. Her voice was tinged with triumph, convinced she had an unbeatable argument. “Surely you would want him to have a man who would last beyond your remaining years?”

“‘ _He’_ is right here,” Samuel broke in, his voice flat. He was looking at Jordan’s mother with the beginnings of disgust curling his lip. “And no, I would not. Loki is my bonded, my husband. I wouldn’t want anyone but him. I don’t.”

“I would add,” Loki continued, voice faux casual. His fingers were tracing the flames hewn into the wood. “That Sam here is five-thousand years old. As my bonded, he will live for as long as I do. Your son would never outlive Sam. Even if my bond with Sam broke, I could never take Jordan.” Loki’s voice turned hard, his eyes fixing on Bella, pinning her in place like a bug to a board. “I wouldn’t even want to, before you consider that plan any longer. Destroying my bond with Samuel – which is nearly impossible to do, I would add – would only enrage me beyond anything _your_ pitiful mind could ever conceive of.” 

Jordan felt his hope slipping away from him, dashed harder against the rocks with every word the couple upon the dais spoke. No matter the argument his mother put to them, they always had a counter-strike, one that left his mother reeling to gather her thoughts each time, the pause between each argument she gave testament to that. What’s more, from what they said, from the way they interacted, Jordan could tell their bond was a strong one, it had to be. Loki had chosen Samuel for this bond, whatever it was. While Jordan may not understand that aspect of it, he understood that as a god Loki had a choice of anyone, anyone at all, and he’d chosen Sam – for the rest of eternity. It was a bond Jordan couldn’t possibly hope to break, and one he wasn’t sure why his mother thought she could.

Still, Jordan did his best to help, continuing to think the litany of his own praises. From the way Loki was looking at him, eyes pitying and lips drawn down in the corners, he knew it wasn’t working. Jordan knew he wouldn’t be satisfied when they left with their tails tucked between their legs (if they left at all, that was), unless he had done everything he could to win them what they wanted, what they needed. His sister deserved a better life, _he_ deserved a better life. Loki could give them it, if he’d only accept their offering.

“Jordan has power,” the desperate voice that broke in both shocked and irritated Jordan. His father had spoken again, revealing Jordan’s own embarrassment as if it were something good. “He can be useful to you.”

“Power, huh?” Samuel raised an eyebrow, eyes like moss covered stone flickering over him. “What sort?”

Jordan remained silent, waiting for his father to dig them into an even deeper hole. Nothing happened.

Turning slightly, pinning his father with an incredulous glare, Jordan demanded an explanation with his eyes. His father shook his head, indicating to Jordan that he should turn back to the waiting couple upon their thrones. Taking a deep breath and holding it, Jordan did just that.

“I’m… Well, I can see the future,” Jordan shrugged loosely, giving a strained smile to the god. He ignored Samuel, hoping that by doing so he could display devotion to Loki or something of the sort. God, but this whole idea, this whole day was like a train speeding wildly off the rails, crashing head-first into a cliff face and then exploding, just for good measure. “Not often, and with little control, but sometimes, my dreams, they come true.”

“Seen it,” Loki dismissed immediately, waving a hand over his mouth as he pretended to yawn. “Are you done with your sales pitch? I think my answer is clear.”

“Your answer is clear—” his mother practically squawked, catching herself just in time. When Jordan turned to look out of the corner of his eye, he saw she was running frustrated hands through her hair, teeth clenched tight enough it could be seen in the tense line of her jaw. “You would prefer staying with a man you’ve been with for _five-thousand years_ , a man who looks like he’s on the way to middle-aged, with no _real_ power, than my intelligent, handsome, _brilliant_ son? He was _made_ for this!”

“Yes,” Loki nodded, eyes shifting angrily over each of them. Jordan noticed that Sam was doing the same, and that amber and hazel eyes both fixed on him sadly. “That’s exactly what I’m telling you. And as for power…?”

Again Loki snapped, the smell of burning dust filling the air.

After the click, Jordan’s eyes began to feel sticky. He blinked them slowly, feeling crusted skin peeling apart each time he tore them open. Something was wrong, he just couldn’t put his finger on what. It took him a few moments to work it out.

The air was swirling around them, moving almost like convection currents. What was particularly strange about it was that nothing was shifting with the air, the hazes moving through anything they hit. Risking a glance to the side at the shadows, Jordan recoiled. Behind him, he felt his mother and father jump as well, the three of them pressing in tighter together. The shadows were filled with strange looking creatures, goblinesque at the very least. They were almost like ancient depictions of the fey that Emma was always telling Jordan about, but still not quite the same.

Gulping, Jordan tore his eyes away from them, facing the dais in their place, intending to ask the question of what was done to them. Instead, he was cut off by his own terrified awe. His hairs stood on end, goose-bumps rising all over his body, giving his skin an unpleasant prickling sensation. At the back of his neck, a shiver started up, spreading its way through his body like poison through his veins. His mind was screaming at him, begging him to tear his gaze away, to never look upon these people again, but he couldn’t help it. A scream caught in his throat, bubbling and building and burning his oesophagus, but it never flowed over, never spilled out. He couldn’t open his mouth to let it. A feeble whine escaped in the screams stead. Behind him, his parents were groaning and moaning softly, horror in their voices

On the dais Samuel and Loki still sat, but instead of the two imposing figures that had been there before, now two very god-like beings sat.

Loki’s throne had been carved with flames, and now Jordan knew why. It stood there empty, Loki having risen to his feet to round the back of Samuel’s throne. Over the back of it, Jordan could only see Loki’s power-soaked head and shoulders, but it was enough to get the idea. Huge wings emerged from his back, see-through and gleaming. They were like wisps of light, transparent but golden, almost angelic in their appearance. If it weren’t for the fact that Jordan knew they were looking at the Norse god Loki, he’d almost call this creature an _angel_.

Around his golden locks was another ring of gold, glowing bright and solid. It sat like a crown, spiked with jagged peaks. Once-whiskey gold eyes burned bright blue, like ice, but all Jordan could feel emanating from this creature was fire and heat and anger. It felt like messages, burning against someone’s still tongue, begging to be spoken. It felt like justice, heated and determined, ready to be given. It felt like fierce love and devotion, to the point that any who harmed those loved by this creature would be hurt severely, torturously. It spoke of emotions so heightened, so furious and bitter and yet so passionate and loving that Jordan almost wanted to prostrate himself on the ground, worship at the creature’s feet and scream his enraged, terrified heart out.

But if his heart had been beating like a hammer in his chest due to the _god’s_ nature, it was nothing compared to the god’s _husband_.

The once ever-changing eyes of this creature, this second being, were now glowing a bright gold, almost yellowing in colour. Something about them spoke of a thin balance, the constant struggle between good and evil, between poisonous yellow and enriched gold.

Behind the man were no wings, but there was some sort of aura. It was bright white, shining so vibrantly Jordan’s eyes teared up, watering the brilliance. It glowed through his building tears, brightened as they fell down his cheeks. Stark black cracks intersected the white, but when Jordan focused on them, more gold poured through. It was like the aura had been broken, shattered into a million pieces and then put back together, only to find it was meant to be like that in the first place, more beautiful by far. The idea of Japanese Kintsugi flashed through Jordan’s mind, then vanished back into the depths of his consciousness, pushed there by the awe overwhelming him.

Upon the man’s head was another crown, this one jagged-edged and coiled with gilded vines. Thorns burst from the crown here and there, though they always pointed downwards, threatening to stab only the wearer, nobody else. A single thorn was poking into the man’s brow, denting the skin but not yet drawing blood. Jordan wondered if it ever would, or if it would never reach far enough into this man, this _creature’s_ power, for that.

Whatever the god’s power had been, fire and burning heat, this man’s power was almost the opposite. This was a cold, slow power, deeper than anything Jordan had ever felt. There was a depth to the power that was indescribable, almost unfathomable, like you could fall into the well of it and never escape. It felt like the power was encrusted with a thin layer of ice, a barrier that was held there by will alone and nothing else. Dormant and patient, the power lay waiting, ready to be used for terrible things in the name of love. Where Loki would burn and ravage and cause mountains to quake in that name, this creature would freeze and destroy and grind mountains away to dust, just for that very emotion: love.

But that wasn’t the worst of it. What really had Jordan freezing was not the flaying heat of Loki’s power, nor the burning cold of Samuel’s power, but the perfect warmth of the bond between them. It stretched, unbreakable and luminescent and obvious between them, thick and winding like roots of a tree. Jordan studied it, looking for any kind of weakness, but there was none. All he could see was another bond coming from Samuel, this one entirely different, stretching out ethereal and endless towards someone else, binding him to another soul out there in the world. It wasn’t something Jordan could use, though: Loki saw him eyeing it and shook his head. This wasn’t a track Jordan could go down. There was no tearing these two creatures apart.

“What did you do to us?” his mother cried, voice thick with tears, trembling with fear. “What did you do?!”

“I showed you power,” Loki shrugged, clicking his fingers again. Jordan caught his breath as everything went back to normal. It didn’t feel normal anymore; felt more like a lace curtain had been pulled over a window. You could still see out into the outside world, but no longer properly; things were distorted, hidden. In this case, it was the power that was obscured. The room smelt like the burning heat again. “ _Real_ power. I’m a _god_ , in case you hadn’t noticed, and Sam here is something else entirely, made by circumstance and accident. You could never hope to beat him in power.”

Loki rounded the chair again, sauntering towards his own throne. Samuel watched him, eyes crinkling slightly with amusement as he watched the god slump down into the uncomfortable carved wood as if it were a particularly loved armchair.

“Nor could you hope to rival Sam in intelligence,” Jordan jumped as Loki fixed his gaze with his own, speaking directly to him. “Nor in looks. Not for me. Now,” he waved his hand, sighing deeply. “Get out. You bore me.”

Behind him, Jordan heard the intake of breath that meant his mother was gearing up to speak again. Jordan closed his eyes, slumping forward and burying his face in his hands. All he wanted to do was go back home, back to his normal life, in his normal world. He wasn’t cut out for the court of a god, he knew that now. He wanted to take his sister and run, never look back at this. He’d teach her not to think of it, make sure she never embarrassed herself like his mother was embarrassing him, never risk herself like his mother was risking him. They’d build a better life on their own, not like this.

“I said,” Loki began lowly, voice dangerous and sickly sweet. It rose to a roar as he finished. “ _Get out_!”

With that, a power whipped around the room. It was the same one that had brought them to the court. The last thing he saw was the unamused face Samuel gave Loki, the last thing he heard as the magic snatched them up and threw them through the air was Samuel, lightly admonishing his husband.

Whipping them around, shaking them and burning them scorching hot, the current delivered them from the court. Jordan could only find relief. Even when they slammed down, jarring his knees hard enough to split them again, the blood pouring fresh and steady from the wounds, Jordan was just glad to be alive. He pitched forward into the grass, laying flat out in the ritual circle as he caught his breath.

The grass tickled his cheek and the smell of slightly damp mud reached his nose, but it was probably the best he’d ever felt. Relief like soothing water rushed through him, soothing the burns, washing away the smell of damp stone and burning heat, clearing his senses. The sounds of panting from both his parents cut through the birdsong in the trees, the sounds of sneaker-clad feet pounding across the dew-damp grass as Emma rushed towards them.

“Jordan?” she called, coming to rest at his side. Her small hands shook him, rolling him over. He groaned, batting her away in annoyance. “Jordan, what happened?”

“He didn’t want me,” he told her in a hushed voice, blinking his eyes open to look at the overcast sky. A single drop of rain hit him square on the cheek, rolling down and to the side like a falling tear. “Thank God, but he didn’t want me.”

“What?” she asked, her voice small. Shifting his eyes to her, Jordan saw she was biting her lip. Looking at her didn’t hurt his head, didn’t make his mind insist that something was wrong; there was no power to her. She was an ordinary human. He pulled her into his arms and she cried out, her small hands slamming into his chest to balance herself. “Jordan, what?”

Hugging her tightly, he buried his face into the top of her auburn curls and breathed her deeply in. Human. Definitely human.

“We’re leaving,” he whispered to her, voice low enough that only she could hear. Their parents appeared to be passed out for the moment, but he wasn’t taking any chances. “Pack your stuff, Emma. We’re leaving.”

“Why?” she sounded overwhelmed, as if she were about to cry. Jordan simply pulled her closer, closing his eyes as the rain began to fall gently, then in earnest. His shirt soaked through wherever Emma wasn’t, sticking to his skin just as his pants were sticking to his torn-up knees. “I don’t understand. Why?”

“Because,” he told her, certainty making his voice strong, sure. “We deserve a better life than this.”

And they did, he knew. No more magic-obsessed parents, no more doing it the easy way. They were going to work at it, the human way, and they were going to make sure they made things better for _themselves_. There would be no asking a creepy god, no asking him to get rid of a husband, a bonded that he loved beyond any _human_ measure. No, he and Emma were going to do it the human way.

It might be difficult, but they would do it. Letting Emma go and pushing himself to his feet, Jordan took one last look at his parents, then turned his back. Taking up Emma’s hand in his own, hair and clothes plastered to their skin, they headed towards the house, ready to make themselves a better life.


End file.
